Raven
by evyg
Summary: Sands is the spectator, watching his scheme unfold.


_Ravens are solitary...will even prey upon sick and injured animals...possess sharp eyesight and hearing...considered among the most intelligent of all birds. Ravens are strong fliers that can hover in place or soar like a hawk...they may fly like stunt pilots at times, doing partial barrel-rolls in flight..._

**Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,   
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;   
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;  
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -   
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -   
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. **

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,  
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -   
On this home by horror haunted...  
...this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore. 

_Edgar Allan Poe - The Raven_

* * *

  
Mr Jeffrey Sheldon Sands, CIA agent extra-ordinaire, watches through dark sunglasses as the waitress brings him his meal. She cannot see where his eyes stray and linger, and it is just as good; she probably wouldn't much appreciate it. Lowering his eyes and sipping his tequila, cigarette casually resting in the soft cradle made by his index and middle finger, he shoots her a winning smile, and she acknowledges it with one of her own before hurrying back into the kitchen, seemingly shaken by even this short time spent in his presence. She has certainly seen him before; probably even heard whispers, but like any good citizen of Coahuila, Mexico, she knows when not to listen. 

Sands exhales through his nose, and watches the billowing smoke as it reaches the dirt-cracked ceiling and disappears. Shadows and shapes; light and darkness; all on the beautiful canvas of a land long forgotten by existence, inhabited by simple-minded peasants, with no joy for anything but drink and dance. Sands despises them almost as much as he despises his own people; the ones who sent him there, the ones who keep him muzzled and chained, like a rabid dog just waiting to be put down. He bides his time, circling his pole, testing his shackles every once in a while; they will not hold him forever, and he knows it as well as they do. 

They are, as always, ignorant of his greater scheme. They have always turned a blind eye to the bodies turning up in heaps and droves, and Sands silently wonders, with a tingling sensation of pride, whether any agent has ever killed as many people as he has. He lost count long ago, but it was never important to him. Human life is not important to him; he considers people to exist solely for his own pleasure. They are nothing but pawns in his games, unable to move unless he moves them; and even then only one step at a time, straight ahead, in the direction he is nudging them. 

The game here has proven to be an easy one. He has already conquered the enemy's queen: a rigged bullfight providing him with enough money to buy Nicholas' allegiance. The king now stands unprotected, and Sands' knights are moving in for the check mate. Little do they know his plans for them, but therein lies his trumph card: his legendary shadow, his dead man walking; nothing but ash and dust and grief and long-lost dreams. It's almost romantic, Sands ponders, with a stealthy wolf-like grin ...were he inclined to such nonsense, which of course he is not. 

And now there is nothing left for him to do but to sit back and watch the game unfold, and the pieces of the puzzle fall into place (and what a glorious picture they shall make!). A leer perverts the fine features: Jeffrey Sheldon Sands enjoys Mexico like a man would a fine dry wine. He might actually stay for a while, he muses; he'd certainly like to look upon the face of the man who tries to tell him to leave, after his third arm and a silencer have had their say. 

With that pleasant thought occupying his mind, he orders another tequila. 

* * *

  
**And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting   
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;   
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,  
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;  
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor   
Shall be lifted - nevermore!**


End file.
